I Come to Find a Refuge
by SussexDragon
Summary: John leaves 221B to begin married life. Sherlock is lost without a flatmate; luckily, recently-divorced DI Lestrade is looking for a place to stay. De-anon from kinkmeme.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: we neither own, nor profit from, any characters or situations contained herein._

_De-anon from kinkmeme prompt:_

_John gets married [to Sarah]. Sherlock didn't realise until he's gone how much he relied on John to provide, for example, food. Handily, recently post-divorced Lestrade is looking for somewhere to stay.  
>Eventual SL would be amazing [sorry...], but I'd also like gen trials of living with a new housemate. No S/J, please! I'd like John to be happily married and Sherlock still happily dragging him around to crime scenes when he can._

* * *

><p>Sherlock studied the faded gold lettering on the door to 221B Baker Street.<p>

It had been a very busy, somewhat overwhelming day, and he could feel the weariness creeping into his bones. If John had known, he might have thought it was a little strange that days without sleep, running after criminals in dark alleys, did not tire Sherlock, but one afternoon of _normal things_ could do him in completely.

He pushed open the door, stood for a moment on the threshold, then let it fall shut behind him. He didn't have to hold it open for John this time.

The corridor by the stairs was dark and soothing. A bit like the church had been, before all of the people had come in their bright blouses and dresses and ties, turning on the lights and setting out the flowers. The church had been rather lovely in the early morning light. Sherlock didn't quite understand why John and Sarah had insisted on filling it up with so many _things_.

Still, who was he to argue with them? It hadn't been his wedding, after all.

John had wanted him involved. He'd been quite taken aback when Sherlock had declined his request that he be best man; apparently it was "an honour" and "what best friends do" and also "I can't imagine wanting anyone else," but he'd found someone else, and Sherlock had been content to sit at the edge of the pew, in the back, quietly deducing anything that was interesting about the attendees from the backs of their heads. He'd come up with satisfactory reasons to explain to John why he hadn't wanted to be in the wedding party, but the truth of the matter was that weddings were all about people and feelings and significance, and Sherlock didn't really _do_ those things. It wouldn't have been fair to John to pretend. Lestrade had been pleased and proud to be asked – and relieved, as well; his sudden lack of a plus-one seemed to have been weighing rather heavily on his mind. In the end, he had cut quite a dashing figure in his tuxedo, standing at the altar next to John. A good decision, then.

Sherlock flopped down onto the couch and opened his mouth, the words "Tea, John," already queued up and ready.

Oh.

He supposed he had better learn to make tea.

Curious, how… _unfamiliar_ it seemed not to be able to just ask. Sarah could ask John for tea now, and it didn't seem quite fair. Sherlock had known John first, and they had shared more tea. Didn't that count for anything?

Well, perhaps the tea didn't matter. After all, Sherlock had been neglecting several very important experiments all day in order to attend this event of John's. He rummaged through the glassware on the dining table, stacked there because the kitchen had apparently been necessary for something to do with John, and located the Erlenmeyer flask he'd been seeking. The stopper was intact – small mercies – and the sample inside appeared to be growing quite a healthy population of bacteria. He bent over it, fishing around in the mess for a new package of Petri dishes, and forgot about the tea.

The silence was pleasant, allowing him full concentration on his work, until he brutally – though briefly – shattered it with the slightly-less-controlled-than-anticipated explosion of a series of cell culture flasks. Once the ringing in his ears had faded, though, the silence was…

… well, _different_.

John ought to be shouting at him right now. _Disturbing the peace. Endangering my sanity. And the mess! Sherlock, we both know very well who's going to be cleaning this up. For God's sake, take it to Bart's!_

The fact that no one was shouting at him seemed strange, and he wasn't quite sure how he felt about it.

* * *

><p>Lestrade still smiled at his memories of the wedding two weeks ago.<p>

Despite his recent issues, he had found the occasion to be a joyous one, and had stood grinning throughout the entire ceremony.

The colourful sight of the flowers and the people filling the church, the sound of the organ and the bells – clear and strong, yet so full of celebration, the ceremonious exchanging of the rings, the blissful yet powerful kiss, the ringing applause – they had all triggered memories of his own day, and although those memories were now decidedly bittersweet, he had found John's day wholly and completely sweet.

Except for one detail. One small thing, which was out of place then, and out of place now. Which stood before him, and which was the sole reason he wasn't smiling now.

Sherlock Holmes.

The man had simply sat there, in the back of the church – hadn't attended the reception, hadn't even wanted to be the best man. At his best friend's wedding. Lestrade had long since given up trying to understand Sherlock's motives, but this incident was almost enough to make him interested again.

He was a right holy terror now, though.

"Murder, Lestrade? Hardly a quarter hour on your own, and already you confess yourself out-matched. Morale must be very low indeed." Barely out of the cab, and already he was making a start.

Lestrade moved to intercept him before he got any closer to the tape.

"Now hang on, Sherlock, you can't just waltz in here and start tearing us up like that."

"Isn't that – " Sherlock broke off to cast a glance down at where Lestrade's hand gripped his arm, and Lestrade let go reluctantly under the force of those icy blue eyes.

"Thank you. As I was saying, isn't that what I always do?"

Lestrade looked him over quickly, eyes narrowed slightly. "No, it's not," he replied gaugingly. "Listen, are you all right? You – "

"Fine," Sherlock cut him off. "Brilliant. Fantastic. May I go and look now?" He made to go off in that direction, but was stopped by Lestrade's hand once more, and Lestrade took advantage of the man's obvious shock to finish.

"As _I_ was saying, Sherlock, that _isn't_ what you always do. It's not even what you _normally_do."

Sherlock looked irritated, but the raised eyebrow indicated some small level of curiosity. Lestrade continued. "You normally waltz in here, look at the scene, and _then_start tearing us up. The work comes first."

"Unless I happen to encounter Donovan or Anderson before I encounter the scene."

"Why do you think I'm holding you back?"

"Fair enough. So tell me, Inspector, what have we got here?"

"You know, I'm not going to tell you just so you can go back to insulting everyone."

"You didn't particularly care before," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, we did!" called out a voice from inside the sectioned-off parking lot.

"Anderson!" reprimanded Lestrade at the same time as Sherlock returned, "Anderson, glad to see you weren't too tired to make it out this morning. That night life can be rough, can't it?"

Anderson froze, clearly caught off-guard. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times before he got up a response. "And just how would you know about that? Although I suppose your doctor hasn't been married forever…"

Lestrade looked murderous. "That's enough, Anderson! Back to work, and I'll speak with you later!"

Anderson shot Sherlock a sneer, but turned away again quickly enough.

Taking a deep breath, Lestrade turned back to his problem child. "Now this, right here, is what I'm talking about, Sherlock! I can understand the occasional side remark, but you can't be explicit like that. And god help me for saying this, but now you know how it feels."

"My 'feelings' are irrelevant, Lestrade, and I am therefore quite happy to treat all 'feelings' likewise," Sherlock snapped. "They've only ever interfered with my work, and I don't see how they could avoid doing the same to everyone else's." He pried Lestrade's fingers off of his sleeve and stalked off towards the body.

Whatever the Detective Inspector had been expecting, it wasn't this. Demeaning remarks on his intelligence, perhaps, or snide, inconvenient deductions, but not an actual confession. Of course, he doubted the man realized how much he had let slip, especially given that he clearly didn't even trust Lestrade to be able to do his own job.

For all that Sherlock might be able to grind him into the dirt when it came to detective work, he didn't know the first thing about dealing with people. Apparently, "people" included himself.

Lestrade made a split-second decision and opted for the offensive. "You miss him, don't you?"

Sherlock halted abruptly and did an about-face, gravel crunching under his feet. "Sorry?"

"John. You miss him, don't you?"

"No," replied Sherlock, too quickly, "it's just different, that's all." He looked puzzled, though, and Lestrade did a mental head-slap. Had Sherlock honestly not realized he missed John? It was hardly surprising, given Sherlock, but all the same…

"Donovan!" Lestrade called sharply.

"Yes, sir?" she replied, ducking under the tape and coming up to the pair.

"You're in charge for the next fifty minutes, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Sherlock, come on. We need to talk." He waylaid the consulting detective and herded him toward the street, but turned back to Donovan after a few steps. "Oh, and tell Anderson he's not gotten off so easily. I'll still be wanting to see him."

The sergeant's face paled slightly with sympathetic worry, but she responded dutifully. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Carry on."

"Yes, sir." She walked off, but cast a confused glance back over her shoulder as she ducked back under the tape.

Lestrade didn't catch it, though, as he was preoccupied with the similar expression on his charge's face. "What is this about?" asked Sherlock, a bit uncertainly.  
>Lestrade began propelling him towards a waiting cab.<p>

"We're going to go get lunch. God, you look like you haven't eaten in a week – at least. Get in."

Ignoring the vehement protests that followed this declaration, Lestrade summarily shoved the stubborn young man into the car, crawled in after him, and pulled the door shut. "Covent Garden," he ordered, and proceeded to sit back and ignore the glares that quite probably could have been focused into a death ray with relative ease.

Being a member of the police force accustomed one to such things.

* * *

><p>"Right," began Lestrade after he had ordered – Sherlock had refused to, but Lestrade intended to force whatever he got down the consultant's throat if he wouldn't comply – "What's going on?"<p>

Sherlock looked at him askance. "I could just as easily ask you the same."

"Okay." The DI leaned forward over the table and fixed Sherlock with his best interrogation room look. "I've taken you out to lunch because, quite frankly, you look bloody awful, and I want to know why that is."

Silence.

"All right, we'll do this your way. You don't want to talk, fine. But you _will _answer me, is that clear?"

Sherlock glanced up at the clock on the wall above Lestrade's head and decided, in the interest of time, to cooperate this far. "Perfectly," he replied smoothly.

"Excellent. When did you last eat?"

"What day is it?"

"Wednesday."

"Friday morning."

It took notable effort for Lestrade's jaw not to drop, but he eventually managed a controlled raise if the eyebrows instead. "For god's sake, how have you not passed out yet?"

"Am I supposed to answer that?"

"No."

"Practice."

"I said not to answer."

"And I said I _would _answer. Next question; we're running out of time."

"Relax, Sherlock, the food isn't even here yet."

"Exactly. Next question."

"Fine. Why haven't you eaten since Friday morning?"

"Too busy."

"Doing… ?"

"Work. Experiments, cold cases, dissertations."

"You can't possibly have been doing all of that."

"Why not?"

"Because you never do – it's always one or the other, never two, and certainly never three, at the same time."

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, that _would _be your reasoning. 'An object in motion…'"

"Why couldn't your landlady, Mrs… um… Hudson, Mrs. Hudson, have gotten you something to eat?"

Sherlock actually winced slightly at that, and began fiddling with the table cloth. "We don't exactly… see eye to eye these days."

"How so? Or, in what respects?"

"The flat."

"What about it?"

"Everything!" Sherlock suddenly exploded. "The rent, the experiments, the paperwork, my hours, the mess, my violin, the spray paint – "

"Hang on, spray paint? What has spraypaint – "

"Don't even ask. That's what really pushed her over the edge, for some reason," he mused, suddenly calm.

"I'll bet."

"What?"

"Nothing. Look, Sherlock, you can't go on like this."

Sherlock shifted in his seat and looked away. "Yes, I can," he muttered. He was such a child sometimes.

"No, you can't. Come on, Sherlock," he cajoled, "be reasonable. We all miss John as well, but he won't be gone long, and he'd be pretty fussed to find you'd starved to death in his absence."

"Not likely," sniffed the detective airily.

"Yes, likely." Lestrade cleared his throat. "Look, I know you miss John, even if you won't acknowledge it, but you've just been moping, and it's not doing anyone any good, you least of all."

"So what do you propose I do?"

"Find another flatmate."

Sherlock snorted again. He seemed to be making quite a habit of it, thought Lestrade. "Really, Lestrade? That's what you come up with? Who but John could possibly be my flatmate?"

"Me. … Oh, stop gaping Sherlock, the food is here."


	2. Chapter 2

Even as he carried a heavy box of his things up the stairs and into 221B, Lestrade wasn't sure what had possessed him to stick with this decision.

He'd talked to John about it, at a recent crime scene. The thought made him shake his head – Sherlock had apparently completely missed the fact that John was _married_ now and probably had other things to do with his time, and was still banging on John's door at all hours to shout cheerful things like "Double murder! Marylebone! Come _on_!"

And yet, John came. Sarah must not mind, or if she did, she must have learnt by now that no force on heaven or Earth could keep John Watson from following Sherlock Holmes to a crime scene. The thought rankled a little, no matter how happy he was for John. He couldn't help feeling that it was a little unfair that John's wife would let him run off to a murder even though it was neither his job nor his obligation, and yet _his_ wife hadn't been able to tolerate it even though for him it was both.

No, there was no sense in bitterness. Sarah was an exceptional woman – Lestrade had said it during his toast at the wedding, and he had meant it – and she and John were exceptionally lucky to have found one another.

Lestrade, on the other hand, was not feeling quite so lucky at the moment.

He could hear Sherlock above him in the flat, shouting something about Lestrade's choice of shirt colour (what was wrong with white? Maybe Sherlock could pull off that ghastly purple thing he was wearing right now, but Lestrade had his pride) and disassembling the last box that had been hauled up the stairs.

"Sherlock, do you mind?" He set the newest box down on the rug and went to rescue his entire work wardrobe from Sherlock's somewhat derogatory attentions. "You can't just go through my things whenever you like. I'm your flatmate, not a cold case!"

"John lets me."

"Not anymore, he doesn't, and I'm not going to either."

"What if I need something?"

"Then you can _ask_ for it like a normal human being!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Normal. Normal's boring."

"I can think of worse things."

John had said it was like living with a tornado. What he'd failed to mention was that it was like living with a _sarcastic_ tornado with absolutely no respect for personal space.

He dragged the boxes over to the corner of the room, where hopefully Sherlock would be less tempted to use their contents to deduce what he had had for breakfast every Sunday for the past nine years, and looked up just in time to see Sherlock run a Geiger counter over his guitar case.

"_Sherlock!_"

"What?"

"Get away from there or I'm calling Anderson to help me move in!"

Sherlock's petulant look never wavered, but he did take a half-step away from the guitar.

"I don't understand why you need so many things at all."

Lestrade gaped at him, then waved a helpless hand at the mountains of belongings Sherlock had scattered about the living room, the laboratory in the kitchen, the evidence tacked and Sellotaped to every wall. Sherlock's things could fill a flat twice the size and not look out of place.

"You could just use mine."

"John told me about the time he borrowed your shampoo."

In great detail, in fact. Lestrade's favourite part of the story had been that, despite the fact that it was _John_ who had used what had actually turned out to be an experiment in mildew growth in various mild acids, it was _Sherlock_ who had sulked for several days afterward – initially at the loss of the experiment, but then at the idea that John had had the audacity to touch his shampoo.

Stories like those had made for good nights down at the pub, but they were suddenly less funny now.

He realized that it had grown far too quiet in the flat. "Sherlock?" he called, hearing the way his voice echoed in strange and unfamiliar ways in this new place.

"In here."

"What are you doing in there? That's _my_ room."

"You haven't brought your gun."

"Wha – Sherlock, are you _in my room_, _looking for my gun_?"

"It's important to be familiar with all resources. Your gun is a resource."

"My gun is _not_ a resource! And I'm not telling you where it is!"

"What if I need to rescue you?"

"The only thing I'm going to need rescuing from in the near future is _you_, and the only thing that's going to be rescuing me is a pint. Now either help me bring in the rest of the boxes or get out of there."

"Did you bring jam?"

Sherlock's leaps of logic were starting to make him dizzy. "Jam?"

"John keeps jam in the fridge."

"Why would I have brought jam? Go to Tesco's if you want some, it's a two-minute walk."

"John did the shopping."

Lestrade dropped his face into his hands, massaging his temples. He knew when he was beaten, and his instincts told him that jam was not the only thing missing from the refrigerator.

"I'll go. Just let me get these boxes into my room first."

As he lugged the last load into his bedroom, Lestrade sighed. It was not exactly an auspicious start to their flat-share, but at least it was better than John Watson's – after all, he had had to kill a man on his first night. (Lestrade wasn't stupid, and neither Sherlock nor John was as good at covering as they thought they were.)

He supposed a two-minute trip for jam and groceries was a comparatively minor sacrifice.

Even if it did mean leaving Sherlock at home alone with his things in the meantime.

* * *

><p><em>Well, this is different<em>, thought John, as he stood awkwardly outside the ring of yellow tape by Putney bridge. Without Sherlock. Or Lestrade.

Sherlock had called him almost forty minutes ago, saying he was literally getting into a car _at that very moment_and that John had better be at Putney bridge within twenty minutes, and to hell with the traffic laws. John was almost completely sure that Sherlock had added that last bit purely to bait Lestrade, who was sure to have his hands full enough as it was. All the same, though, he was glad that Sherlock had never driven him anywhere.

Except mad, which was entirely different, and could actually be quite an enjoyable place.

Fortunately, John wasn't missing the late nights, the noisome experiments, the chases, the cab rides, the violin, and the body parts in the fridge nearly as much as he had feared – thank god – or else he would hardly be serving his purpose as functional human being and husband.

He did miss his friend, however, and so still leapt at the chance to take a case with him. He constantly blessed his new wife for her boundless understanding. She knew he missed Sherlock, and she never put up a fuss about John's wanting to see him. He had been married just over four weeks, and he was noticing the vast differences in his pre- and post-marriage life styles, beyond even the expected.

It would appear, though, that some things never did change, as evidenced by the conspicuously absent consulting detective, who had all but promised to be there twenty minutes ago. What was _un_usual was the current lack of Detective Inspector.

John stood uneasily by the base one of the stone arches, feeling very out of place, and wondering when either of them would have the decency to show up.

He didn't know anything about the actual crime, as he hadn't received his customary debriefing from Sherlock, but all too clearly Sherlock had wanted him there. For what, he had no idea. Sounding board, witness, human canoe – or maybe he had been – no. Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he wasn't a nostalgic.

He also wasn't _there_. Why wasn't he there?

Finally, after a few more minutes of pointless speculation, a white police car pulled up by the bridge, and disgorged a very ruffled-looking Lestrade, followed by an equally irate Sherlock, who both picked their way down the slope to the cordoned-off area.

Lestrade headed directly to the milling crowd and called over Sergeant Donovan, who he addressed in a voice too low for John to discern. Sherlock strode over to John, and began speaking as soon as he was within earshot. "It's fortunate Lestrade is a member of the police force – I'm certain that, had he not been, we would have been pulled over for driving unacceptably slowly."

John chuckled, but cast a glance over to where Lestrade appeared to be wrapping up his brief conversation with Donovan. "So what kept you?"

Sherlock scowled slightly. "We were… delayed."

John snorted. "Yeah, that's helpful. But really, what?"

"Genius boy forgot something," called a new voice. Lestrade was approaching them, and despite his exasperation, he looked rather pleased to be the bearer of bad news. "By the time he realized, we were practically here."

Sherlock rounded on Lestrade. "We weren't 'practically here,' we hadn't even passed Fulham – "

"That makes no difference!"

"Yes it does! Saying we were 'practically here' implies that we had to triple the total driving time, when in fact, since we hadn't yet passed Fulham, we saved well over six minutes."

"You didn't have to go back and get it!"

"Get what?"

"Yes, I did. How else do you expect me to do my job?"

"His magnifier."

"What?"

"You could've just used mine!"

"Absolutely not."

"What's wrong with it?"

"You have a magnifier?"

"Yes, and there's nothing wrong with it."

"Since when?"

"Yes, there is – it has terrible distortion."

"Since four years ago, and no, it does not."

"It absolutely does."

"Why did you even go past Fulham?"

"Because Lestrade never listens to my directions."

"Not for driving, no, god no!"

"Why does no one trust me?"

"Because you have no knowledge of traffic laws?"

"Thank you, John."

"How admirable."

"I do try."

"Clearly."

"Thank you. Now, what've we got here? I've been standing here like a fool for the past twenty-five minutes, and I have no idea what I'm even supposed to be doing with this." John gestured at the sea of milling officials behind him.

"Right, sorry. In that case, let's go." Lestrade motioned for John and Sherlock to follow him as he ducked under the tape and strode to the body. Donovan stood near their entrance, but she notably didn't say anything as Sherlock passed her. John caught up a second later, and stood next to Lestrade as Sherlock bent to examine the corpse with his – apparently distortion-free – magnifier.

As Sherlock worked, the DI quickly filled John in as to the case thus far, taking care to speak softly, facing slightly away from the stooped figure of the consultant.

"Woman, early middle age, looks like suicide, but of course you can't ever tell _him _that. Appears to have jumped, no signs of a struggle or violence. Odd thing is, though – "

"She didn't jump into the river," finished John quietly.

"Exactly. For whatever reason, she went over the side where there was still land underneath."

"No, she didn't," called Sherlock, quite carryingly. "She was in the water, but was pulled out soon afterwards, even though she was already dead."

John took this in stride, and simply looked along the bridge. "Yeah, okay, but…"

"Yes?" prompted Lestrade.

"It's not high enough for a water landing to kill her."

Sherlock stood up and smiled at him. "Glad to see you've not deteriorated in my absence. You're absolutely right. She hit one of the platforms that juts out a bit from the side." He pulled off the examination gloves with a snap. "She landed at just the right angle, so that she died upon impact, but it wasn't until the tide came came in – mere minutes after – that she was actually submerged. She spent a very short amount of time in the water before being dragged to shore. Looks like a Good Samaritan job, but for the artful arrangement of the limbs. No reason to commit suicide, no signs of a struggle, drugs, or poison on the body, so now, all that remains to be seen to is the road. John, Lestrade?"

Without waiting for an answer, he was off again, climbing the slope and hopping over the guard rail with his usual agility, and walking along the road until he was out of their line of sight.

Lestrade sighed. "Come on, we'd better make sure he doesn't get hit by a car." Sharing a wistful chuckle, they began cautiously following the route Sherlock had taken, although with much less grace. As they reached the rail, John saw Sherlock crouched down, on the sidewalk, at least, oblivious to the traffic whirring behind him.

"So," John asked Lestrade as they clambered onto the sidewalk themselves, "has he given you hell?"

Lestrade chuckled. "No more than I'm used to, usually, although occasionally…" he trailed off with a pained smile.

"Yes, god, yes, I know only too well."

"Right, which is why I thought I'd ask…"

"Yes?"

"Does he _really _never do the shopping?"


	3. Chapter 3

He did today, Lestrade decided, exiting his bedroom to find that _again_, there was no milk for the coffee, and _again_ there was nothing even vaguely resembling breakfast in the fridge (honestly, he'd grown rather fond of the jam), and _again_ –

– were those _fingers_?

Definitely fingers.

John had warned him about a lot of things. Lestrade had scoffed at some. He was beginning to learn that he ought to have believed every single one, because each day, another one proved not to have been untrue.

He sighed and closed the refrigerator door again, suddenly less interested in breakfast.

"Sherlock."

The detective, sprawled across the couch in his dressing gown, violin clasped to his shoulder, shifted so that Lestrade was in his field of view.

"Get dressed. We're going shopping."

"We?"

"No arguing. Come on."

John had been quite worried for Lestrade (or, more likely, for his sanity) when he had first heard of the flat share. Something about Sherlock's "taking over" and "manipulating" and "driving you barking mad, every single _day_, he's absolutely _impossible_, I don't know how anyone manages…"

It was astonishing, really, how much could be accomplished with the simple threat of cutting off Sherlock's access to the morgue at Bart's. He couldn't keep him from his cases, of course – they both knew the Yard would be desperate without him – but it was a simple matter to declare forensic pathology off-limits, and it was rare that Lestrade actually needed him in there.

Finding a balance with a new flatmate was always hard. Lestrade thought he was holding his own fairly well with this one, all told.

When Sherlock emerged, fully dressed – for once, he didn't appear to have sought out any loopholes in Lestrade's request – he handed the young detective a carrier bag.

"Let's go."

"What's this?"

"It's a bag. Or were you planning to juggle the shopping home?"

Sarcasm at this point in Sherlock's day, when he was already being forced to go to the shops and pick out stewed tomatoes, was probably pushing the limits.

They made the walk to Tesco's relatively unscathed, though Sherlock was engaging in a running monologue about the manufacturing conditions of the cloth bag he was carrying, which were hot and dry and generally unpleasant and it was clearly not made in a fair trade facility and didn't Lestrade have any conscience at all?

"Of course not," said Lestrade. "I spend all my time with you, don't I?"

He found Sherlock in the pasta aisle, holding three cans of Alfredo sauce.

"Picky about it?"

"Hardly," Sherlock said. "I'm debating whether we prefer low sodium or low calorie. _This_ one," he held up a brightly-coloured can, "is lower in both, but the container is better-shaped for use as a weapon."

"Do people often come into your flat and use your non-perishables as weapons?"

"It's… not unheard of," was Sherlock's response. "Best to be prepared for any eventuality."

Lestrade wondered if this was perhaps why John did all the shopping, and if _he_ had spent his time debating which groceries were the safest to have in the house. What he did, though, was tear the list in half and give the portion with the softest packages to Sherlock.

In retrospect, letting the detective loose on the shop with a short list of things to find was probably a mistake. By the time Lestrade had found the vegetables, the meat and (his own) shampoo, Sherlock was back with a basket full of things that hadn't been on the list.

"Why've you brought a load of artichokes?"

"You asked me to find bread and beans. I can only assume you seek to increase the fibre content of your diet, and artichokes can be extremely beneficial in that respect."

"Stop deducing me! I just want beans on toast."

"… Oh. Then I shall return presently."

"And sort out anything else you've substituted, too!" Lestrade called after his retreating back.

He had been warned about the chip-and-pin machines in this particular supermarket ("temperamental," John had called them, but Lestrade thought he might be projecting other frustrations onto them), but he'd never have predicted that Sherlock didn't know how to use them at all.

"Can't you figure it out?" he asked in disbelief. "Card – slot – punch in the numbers – how hard can it be?"

Sherlock simply shrugged. "John did the shopping."

"Christ almighty."

Lestrade paid (in cash; it wouldn't do to have a problem working the same machine Sherlock had failed to grasp), snatched up the bags (better to carry them himself than risk Sherlock's swapping out every other ingredient, or developing a brand-new poison from nothing but their daily necessities, or something worse he hadn't thought of yet) and headed out of the shop, hoping to God that Sherlock was right behind him.

He supposed he ought to be glad it was only the two of them in the flat; he couldn't imagine trying to get any proper errands done with Sherlock around. When the girls visited, he was going to have to do the shopping on his own.

Oh, God, when the girls visited… forget the shopping, he was going to have to find some way of loaning Sherlock out to the United Arab Emirates or something. Except that he'd probably leave the entire flat littered with bombs. Or spleens. They'd have to fly him back first-class so that he could defuse everything.

Lestrade looked very hard for a bright side.

Maybe the girls would think Sherlock was funny.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, sit down." Lestrade spoke calmly, as though he hadn't been demanding the same action for the past hour, and hadn't been consistently met with the same lack of result. Aside from the small sounds of Sherlock's pacing, the only noise came from the pounding of rain on the windows, and the street, and the cars, and the whole bloody city of London.<p>

For three days now, they had been trapped under this torrential cloud cover, and a certain consulting detective was well on his way to an official diagnosis of "critically stir-crazy". This, in turn, pulled a certain Detective Inspector along not far behind.

Of all the many trials of living with Sherlock Holmes, the greatest by far were those in which the man's undiluted personality was inflicted upon one without cease. Fingers in the fridge – a small detail, merely indicative of higher motivations. Lack of respect for personal belongings – easily avoided, if one knew the proper precautionary methods. Violin – just as capable of producing a piece of lyrical beauty as it was of creating an earsplitting cacophany of tortured strings, and the music was well worth the noise. Every other minute detail that set Sherlock well apart from other human beings – simply details. Completely ignorable, so long as one looked in the – correct – opposite direction (it never did to turn away from a particularly hideous experiment, only to find that said experiment had somehow managed to permeate one's _toothbrush_).

So yes, Lestrade did make sacrifices, and he put up with more than he had ever expected to, but he also made every effort to give as good as he got.

It was near impossible, however, to give back the equal or greater value of all of those traits, combined over the course of three days, condensed within the confines of one rather small flat, and perfected with the skill only a true artist of annoyance can master.

Lestrade had been quietly willing something to explode for the past eight hours. Otherwise, he feared that that something would be him.

Sherlock found a section of the floor that creaked above and beyond the call of duty, and explored it at great length.

Lestrade's knuckles turned white against the arms of his chair.

Sherlock slowly and deliberately eased his weight onto that perfect spot, eliciting a high-pitched, drawn-out groan that would have done an ironing board proud. Having exhausted this medium of amusement, he now froze completely, head cocked slightly to the side, before stepping over the small table and dramatically dropping onto the sofa. He settled in, fingers laced together, eyes closed, and Lestrade had just begun a whole-hearted prayer of thanks when Sherlock spoke. "Tea, Lestrade."

If Lestrade had had his way, various parts of Sherlock's anatomy would have combusted under the force of his glare.

Because, in this flat, Lestrade rarely had his way, he instead pulled himself up from the chair and stalked off to the kitchen. He dearly hoped that this request was a sign of Sherlock's winding down, but feared otherwise all the same. The flat was ominously silent but for the pounding of the rain, and as the tea steeped for the requisite three minutes, Lestrade couldn't help leaning around to check that Sherlock was where he had left him. He was. Good. And he didn't appear to be moving anywhere soon. Also good. Brilliant, in fact.

Lestrade carried the two cups out into the sitting room, placing one on the table by the sofa and the recumbent detective, and carrying the other one to his chair.

Sherlock, of course, ignored the offering.

The flat remained silent, and Lestrade's close eye remained on Sherlock.

The noise of the rain had been increasing steadily, but now the low rumbles in the distance were no longer in the distance.

A reverberating crash literally shook the flat, the glassware on the kitchen table rattling and clinking, the tea sloshing nearly out of the cup.

"Christ!" swore Lestrade as he felt his very chair trembling.

Sherlock had reacted as well, but much differently. He slowly raised himself to a sitting position, eyes wide, mouth slightly opened, barely breathing. "Yes," he whispered, barely audible in the aftermath of the thunder. "Yes, yes, yes!" His voice had grown to almost a yell. "Brilliant! Oh, yes, that's brilliant!"

"What the – "

Sherlock spun around to look at Lestrade, and Lestrade's face fell as he saw the gleam of the case in the consultant's eyes.

"No," he cut off sharply before Sherlock could answer his half-phrased question. "No, Sherlock, you are _not_ telling me that you just had a revelation in that clap of thunder."

"Why not? I did." Sherlock looked confused and excited at the same time.

Lestrade dropped his face into his hand and massaged the bridge of his nose.

"That doesn't _happen_ in real life, Sherlock. You don't just _realize_ things at dramatic moments, that's just television crap."

"Who cares?" demanded Sherlock, shifting his weight impatiently, thankfully not over the problem spot. "It happened, and I'm right, and now we have a killer to catch!"

"Sherlock, have you _looked_ outside? There is no way I'm going out in that. We'll – " Lestrade raised his voice to cover Sherlock's protests – "we'll catch him tomorrow, or the day after that. Some day when I'm not going to drown in the streets."

"Don't be so dramatic."

"I'm staying right here."

"Fine. Don't wait up."

"Sherlock, for – it's two in the afternoon, for crying out loud! Where – that bloody – " Lestrade snatched up his coat and hurried after his errant flatmate.

When they returned nearly two hours later, Lestrade was damp and disgruntled, while Sherlock was soaked through and triumphant.

"I told you!" he crowed as Lestrade impatiently pushed him up the stairs to their rooms. "I told you he'd be at the docks!"

"Yes, yes, you're very smart, now shut up and go get dried off."

Sherlock glided off to his room, still floating on the elation of his catch. Never mind that it had pulled him in after it.

Lestrade sighed as he saw the puddles of rain- and river-water his flatmate had left on the carpet. Still, he had closed a case that had been hanging over his head for weeks.

Hands on hips, Lestrade spun around, taking in the state of their flat. Spying the abandoned cup of tea on the table, he sighed again. _Really. The nerve of that man._ All the same, he cleared it, and put the kettle on once more.

When Sherlock emerged in dry clothes, surprisingly tidy, he found the scene almost exactly as it had been before they left, minus the cataclysmic storm, which had faded to no more than a persistent drizzle. Lestrade was sat in his chair, tea in hand, flipping through a file, and there was another cup on the low coffee table. This one, however, was steaming.

Sherlock headed for the sofa and resumed his earlier position, although he swept up the cup as he passed. Gratefully pressing it to his lips, he couldn't help but smile as he sipped.

This was the best tea he had tasted in almost two months.


	4. Chapter 4

The stairs to 221B Baker Street rattled and creaked as Sherlock, in from another of his outside cases, flung himself up them and into the flat with as much drama as he could manage.

"Lestrade, I need access to your files. I have a suspect, I need to know the details, there's a – "

The steady stream of words cut off abruptly as Sherlock's jaw dropped at the sight in front of him.

"I've told you before," Lestrade replied calmly, without interrupting what he had been doing, "you can't have police resources for private cases."

Sherlock's silence went on for nearly a full minute as he stared around the living room of the flat. His papers were gone. His books were gone. His _experiments_ were –

In a sudden flurry of movement, he threw open the door to the kitchen, hardly noticing the bang with which it collided with the opposite wall.

Empty.

"Lestrade, _what have you done with my experiments_?"

"Calm down, Sherlock, they're all properly put away."

"Properly? They aren't supposed to be put away _at all_!"

"Yes, they are. I've told you before, I have the girls this weekend and I won't have them in danger of, I don't know, leprosy or… turning yellow or something every time they walk past one of your machinations."

Sherlock sniffed. "You have a ridiculous view of what my experiments are like."

"I know you've managed to blow the lot of them up at least three times since I've been here. That's bad enough. Or that time last year when John showed up without any eyebrows."

"I told you, the singeing was unexpected."

"Well, I'm expecting it now, and the experiments stay in the cupboard until Monday."

"But there's a time-sensitive – "

"Morgue privileges, Sherlock."

Sherlock shut up. The threat still worked like a charm. After a moment's reflection, he asked, "I take it you've no objection to the experiments I have _in_ the morgue."

"Not as long as they stay there." Lestrade reached for the skull on the mantelpiece, intending to add it to the bin liner full of Sherlock's things he'd already deemed too dangerous or just plain nasty to keep around while there were young children present.

Sherlock's hand on the skull stopped him. "No."

"Sherlock, it's a bloody cranium!"

"Not the skull. You've gutted the entire flat – leave the skull."

"What for?"

"Thinking. And it's my home, too, Lestrade. In fact, the skull was here first."

Lestrade sighed. It was true, after all. The skull had had a far longer tenancy at 221B than he had.

"All right," he said, but he made sure to push it as far toward the back of the mantel as he could, arranging a stack of mail (minus the usual knife) in front of it so that it was as well-hidden as possible from young eyes.

* * *

><p>As soon as the car was visible at the end of Baker Street, Lestrade turned to Sherlock and warned him one last time, "Behave. We've been over the definition enough times."<p>

Sherlock assumed the most disdainful look he could manage, as though the very idea of "misbehaving" were simply ludicrous. He supposed it wasn't, though; he did know Lestrade's definition of behaving, and it was the most boring thing he could imagine. _No horrible stories from the morgue. No body parts in the fridge. No body parts anywhere in the flat at all until Monday. No experimenting when the girls are around. No experimenting _on_ the girls (stop looking for loopholes, Sherlock, and don't you dare even suggest that)._ It was going to be a nightmarish weekend; Sherlock could already tell.

Immediately the car drew to a halt at the kerb, the door was open and two very excited, very lively little shapes were tumbling out and clinging to Lestrade, one at knee-level and the other old enough to reach up and try to hug his waist. He couldn't suppress the enormous grin that spread across his face as soon as he saw his daughters; it had been months since their last visit (something about their being busy and his needing to settle in, but he suspected his ex-wife was remembering his past horror stories about Sherlock), and he really did miss them terribly when they weren't nearby.

He gathered the girls into his arms, then looked around to introduce Sherlock, but the detective appeared to have vanished.

It took two trips up the stairs to get their two little bags inside and up to his bedroom. It should have taken only one, but neither girl would let him put her down for that long, so he ended up carrying each bag individually, with Emma perched on his other arm and Tory balanced on his shoulders. Sherlock could have helped, he thought, then paused on the staircase to chuckle at the ridiculous idea.

When they were finally settled, the girls dragged him (literally, each hanging onto one arm) into the living room, bounced on the couch, and proceeded to examine every single object in the room. Thank _God_, he thought, that Sherlock's worst offences had been cleared out. They were already asking questions about the welding goggles, the paperweights, the butterfly collection… and this was _after_ cleaning.

Every time they held up something new and he started his sentence with "Sherlock…" they giggled. To them, this mysterious flatmate of their daddy's was fast becoming some sort of adventure story, on par with _Tintin_ or _Doctor Who_ and no more real to them.

That is, until Tory, examining the gap between the bookshelf and the wall, emerged with Sherlock's violin case and asked, "Is this Sherlock's, too? I'm doing the violin at school."

Lestrade felt a momentary stroke of alarm – Sherlock rarely even let John touch the violin – and was about to get her to put it back _immediately_ and come out of there before something happened to the instrument, when a dry voice came from behind him.

"Yes, that's Sherlock's."

Both girls stared at him, round-eyed. "Who are you?" the elder of the two dared to demand.

"You tell me."

"Daddy, who is he?" asked Emma, stage-whispering without taking her eyes off Sherlock.

"That's Sherlock," Lestrade said, "and Tory, you _ask_ before you touch expensive things like that."

"Sorry," she said, putting the case down quickly (Lestrade winced at the sound of the thump against the floor). "But Daddy, I _told_ you. I'm _too old_ for Tory. You have to call me _Victoria_ now."

He sighed. "Emma, _Victoria_, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, my daughters."

Sherlock nodded gravely to them both. "Pleased to meet you," he said slowly. It was painfully obvious to Lestrade that he had no idea how to behave around children. "Did you say you were learning to play the violin?"

"I am," said Victoria. "Emma's too young."

"Yes, I see," mused the detective.

"Can you play very well?"

"No," he said. "But well enough."

"Will you play for us?"

Lestrade was expecting another "No," and was about to take the girls upstairs to the bedroom so that Sherlock could have the living room for a bit. He was quite startled when Sherlock knelt on the floor, undoing the catches on the case and lifting out the delicate violin.

"What do you like, Victoria?" There was careful emphasis on each of the four syllables of her full name.

"I like," began Victoria thoughtfully, but then trailed off. She didn't know any composers' names. "I like… _big_ music."

The accompanying hand gesture amused Lestrade as much as the response itself, and he chuckled outright when Emma copied it, flinging her arms into the air and exclaiming, "_Big_ music!"

Sherlock didn't laugh at all, only stood up again, tall and straight, and touched his bow to the strings.

Lestrade's breath caught at the opening notes, and somehow continued to escape him for the duration of Sherlock's playing, kneeling with one arm around each of his daughters, both of whom stood in silence. Before Sherlock finished, Emma was sitting on her father's knee and fidgeting ever so slightly, but neither one of the girls made a sound until the music had ended.

It was Sherlock, of all people, who shattered the ensuing silence. "Was that big enough?"

Victoria nodded, awestruck. "What was that? Can you teach it to me?"

"It was Vivaldi, and I'm not a teacher."

"Oh."

A moment's silence, then Sherlock stooped to lay the violin back in its case.

Lestrade still didn't want to speak, but it was time he said something. He settled on, "Tea. It's time for tea, and then bed, girls. You've had a long day."

"Oh, but Daddy! I want Sherlock to play!"

"Sherlock!" Emma weighed in.

"I think Sherlock's finished for now, Tory. And he needs to eat, too," giving the detective a meaningful look.

"_Victoria_, Daddy!"

"_Tea_, Vic-to-ri-a. Go and wash up with your sister."

They went. Lestrade looked at Sherlock, emerging from behind the bookcase where he had once again stored the violin.

"Thank you," he said softly. "That was… beautiful."

Sherlock didn't even dignify him with a response, sweeping silently out of the living room and off into the dark recesses of his bedroom.

He wouldn't have emerged for the rest of the evening if it hadn't been for Victoria, knocking at his door and refusing to give up after the first time she was ignored, or the second. On her third attempt, Sherlock let the door swing open and looked down on her from his full height.

"Generally, if someone doesn't answer, it can be assumed that he wants to be left alone."

She was slightly taken aback, but, to her credit, recovered almost immediately. "Yes, but it's teatime."

"I am aware."

"Aren't you coming?"

"No. Eating slows my mind down. Not interested."

"Well, you have to sit at the table anyway. Mummy says so."

He raised an eyebrow slightly. "Your mother says I have to eat with you?"

"Not you, everyone. She says if you don't like it, that's your problem, but you have to sit like a civilized person until everyone else has finished."

Sherlock privately doubted that Victoria's mother would rank him very highly on a list of "civilized people," but the girl already had something of her mother's ability to give orders (not Lestrade's; he was a good leader, but he did so by connecting, not commanding). He gave a long, lazy shrug and followed her out to the dining room table, where he sat in silence like an overgrown bat, scowling darkly at the table and ignoring the food in front of him.

* * *

><p>Once the girls were asleep in his bedroom, Lestrade made his way softly back down the stairs to the couch. Sherlock had retreated to his own room after not eating and, save for a few suspicious noises and one rather anxiety-inducing crash, he hadn't been seen since.<p>

He was waiting in the living room, though, when Lestrade arrived.

"Sherlock, you do remember what we agreed."

"Of course. You need somewhere to sleep while your daughters have your room."

"Right. And since some of us actually _do_ sleep…"

Comprehension dawned. "Oh. You want me to…"

"If you don't mind." He was hesitant to engage in his usual stroppy banter with Sherlock; the detective had already far exceeded his expectations with regard to this visit. It felt somehow small-minded to keep on his case about it.

"No, of course not." Sherlock didn't move, though. "Take my room."

"What?"

"Take my room," Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not using it and you have far more need of a bed than I."

"Your room?" He'd never even _been_ in Sherlock's room, and the glimpses he'd gotten of it through the shadowy doorway were chaotic to the point of genuine wariness.

"I do get tired of repeating myself, Lestrade."

"But… isn't it full of… experiments or poison or dead things or something?"

"You did say, 'no experiments in the flat.'"

"I never thought you'd actually _listen_."

"Go on," he said, again. "Take my room."

Lestrade was somewhat stunned, upon walking through Sherlock's door for the first time, to find that it looked almost as though he'd actually _cleaned_ it.

Couldn't be.

* * *

><p>The rest of the weekend passed well; they spent Saturday out in London enjoying themselves, leaving the flat to Sherlock for things probably best left unmentioned. Saturday night, Sherlock was out on a case and the girls were begging to camp out. He let them, on the living room floor in a tent built of Lestrade's blankets strung up over dining chairs. They pleaded for ghost stories; he obliged, and when the tent shook at appropriately terrifying times, he laughed and denied their vigorous accusations.<p>

Until the time it wasn't him, and he stuck his head out from between the artfully-draped sheets to see Sherlock, standing expressionlessly in the dark next to the makeshift tent.

"Look, I'm sorry, it's just…" he tried to explain their presence on the living room floor.

"Sherlock!" shouted Emma, who had poked her head out next to her father's.

"Sherlock!" Victoria joined in, and, immediately, "Do you have any ghost stories?"

After a moment, Sherlock smiled – no, he _grinned_, and Lestrade thought for a moment he must be going mad – and reached for the skull on the mantelpiece.

"Just one."

* * *

><p>The girls went home on Sunday afternoon, piling into the car with much enthusiasm and giggling and cries of "Daddy!" and "Goodbye, Daddy!" and even "Goodbye, Sherlock!" Lestrade hugged them and called them by their most childish nicknames, which made Emma giggle and Tory pout.<p>

Sherlock nodded his goodbye to Emma and offered her sister a grave hand. "Victoria."

"Thank you for playing for me," she said, with equal dignity.

He nodded, turned and went upstairs.

Lestrade followed him shortly after, when the car had vanished from view and the girls no longer needed to see him waving in the rearview mirror.

"Sherlock," he said, meaning to thank him again, but Sherlock waved him off in annoyance, already setting his chemistry glassware back up over the remnants of Lestrade's breakfast.

Well, Lestrade thought.

Perhaps it was time he revised his opinion of Sherlock-as-nightmare-flatmate a bit.

"What files did you say you needed for that case of yours?" he asked.


	5. Chapter 5

It was so cliché, but she had promised herself she wouldn't cry. She had promised, and she carried through with that promise. It wasn't until the day after John Watson was married and moved out that Margaret Hudson cried. Even then, it was only a couple moments of blurred vision and a burning throat, but she was willing to consider it crying all the same.

After all, who wouldn't be sad to lose such a lovely tenant?

She was in her kitchen when it happened, slicing vegetables for a pot roast. She had suddenly registered the peaceful stillness gently sinking from the floors above, and had known – at that moment, without a doubt – that had yesterday's events not taken place, there would be noise. The sounds of arguing, of glassware, of explosions, of that blasted violin – she'd even take the bloody _gunfire _at this point, because she knew that if there wasn't noise, something was wrong.

That was when it had overwhelmed her, when she had felt the tears working their way forward, but she had resolutely held them back, giving a few good hard swallows and pushing the sadness away. She knew that John would be very happy with his new life – it had been firmly agreed upon that the doctor deserved some solid predictability in his life at last – and she was quite willing to do her best to be happy for him.

That didn't make it easy, though.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson knocked softly on the open door to 221B. The lump on the sofa didn't respond, but then again, she hadn't really expected him to. She poked her head around the door, not wanting to intrude until she had to. "Sherlock, love, I think it's time you accepted this. I understand you're upset, but it's not going to change, no matter how much you pine." She spoke as gently as she could, but her sole remaining tenant irritably curled up even further, tucking as much of himself as possible into the questionable depths of the sofa, clearly wishing her absent.<p>

She took this as the invitation it was.

Making her way cautiously across the ill-lit sitting room, casting a glance at the darkness outside the window, she carefully sat down on the very edge of the sofa next to Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson, I would greatly appreciate a bit of solitude right now, and I'd hate to have to make you leave." His voice was muffled by several layers of fabric and fibrefill, but she could make out the words quite clearly nonetheless.

She began gently rubbing his back, despite his non-verbal protests, making it quite clear that she wouldn't be leaving anytime soon – under her own power or anyone else's.

"I know love, that's why I'm here. You don't have to be alone _all_the time."

He twisted up to fix her with a Look – the flat, emotionless one – then flopped back with a huff. There was a brief silence, and she nearly missed his soft words. "I am now, anyway."

She couldn't help but scoff slightly at his melodramatic attitude. "Come off it, Sherlock. It's not like he's gone forever."

_She'd_made peace with the idea of his leaving long before the wedding, yet here he was - Sherlock Holmes, mind of the millennium, dismissor of all emotion – curled up on a sofa and morosing because his flat mate had gotten married.

Her high and mighty attitude couldn't last long, however, with such a pathetic figure in front of her. She resumed the soothing rubbing motions, and felt him relax just the tiniest bit into her touch.

"He has more in his life now, dear," she continued softly, trying to coax him out of his hardened shell. "That doesn't mean he's leaving you behind. You'll still get to see him, and I'm sure you can still take cases together, and – "

"It won't be the same," Sherlock interrupted. Mrs. Hudson was drawn up short at the note of childlike vulnerability in his voice.

Oh dear. This was something she had never heard before.

Lost for words, she merely looked down at him, curled up against the world, and realised for the first time how much he had truly relied on John.

She moved her hand to his hair, and began slowly combing her fingers through the dark curls.

"I know, love. I know."

He suddenly turned his head toward her and took her hand, pressing it to his cheek.  
>"Oh, Maggie," he whispered, almost forlorn, "what am I going to do?"<p>

It was the use of her first name that did sealed it. Sherlock was always averse to such familiarity, except on very rare occasions. This was clearly one of those occasions, and it called for rare actions. She pulled him up against her and wrapped him in an embrace. She hadn't done this in years, not since her children were grown, but the posture still felt familiar. His face in the crook of her neck, she gently rocked them back and forth, one hand gently running through his hair, murmuring soothing nonsense that she knew he wasn't really hearing, and feeling an arm snake around between her shoulder blades in return. They remained like that for a minute or so before she pulled back, wanly patting his cheek, giving a little sniff, and re-affixing a smile to her face.

"All right, Sherlock, off to bed with you now. You look done in." She carefully pulled him up off the sofa, mindful of her hip, and gave him a gentle shove towards his room once he was upright. He submitted with surprising ease. "Try to get some rest, love," she called after him, "you'll feel better for it, I can promise you that." A door closed, and she let out a small sigh. He would feel better, all right. He would be back to his usual self in no time; experimenting, pacing, running in and out at all hours of the day and night, scratching at that violin of his, and making a general nuisance of himself. For once though, she didn't think she would mind a bit.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson quickly changed her mind. Sherlock wasn't his usual self – he was far, far worse. Or maybe he was just more like himself than usual - getting up at even more ungodly hours, making even more of a racket with his even more widely varied experiments, staying up even later playing the violin even louder, and his mess grew absolutely intolerable.<p>

It all came to a head one afternoon, when she grew alarmed at the horrible cacophony that one of Sherlock's "experiments" was currently instigating. Climbing the steps as quickly as she could, she hurried to the door of his flat just in time to see him fire a gun straight into the kitchen, although at what she couldn't see.

The resulting explosion of noise and brightly coloured light was powerful if short-lived, and for a moment she could only stand frozen in the doorway, one hand over her mouth and the other pressed to her chest as she tried to recover her breath.

"Oh, my… oh, my goodness… Sherlock… explain…" She would have preferred that her voice come out imperious and intimidating, rather than high and breathless, but it still got his attention.

"Ah, good, Mrs. Hudson, just the person I needed." He tossed the gun onto a chair – she flinched – and strode over to the table, where a row of small watch glasses were lined up along the front edge. The table was astonishingly clear but for the watch glasses and a slab of some dark, tile-like material in the middle, as well as the myriad minuscule fragments of shattered glass. "I'm going to need to run out for a bit once I've got this sorted, and I need you to keep an eye on this for me." Sherlock bent over a large, flat box and pulled out a small bottle and a dropper. Moving along the line of tubes, he added several drops of the liquid to each one. He then thrust a notebook and pen into her startled hands, and delivered a rapid-fire set of instructions as he pulled on his suit jacket. "Every five minutes, colour and changes. I need to know how long it takes for the water to mix with each gel, and it needs to be as accurate as possible. I should be back within half an hour."

She merely stood for a moment, holding the pen and notebook loosely, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Sherlock made to leave, but she was still firmly ensconced in the doorway.

"Mrs. Hudson," he prompted impatiently, not wanting to push past her.

Then everything came washing back over her, and she had had it.

She roughly tossed the materials to the ground, yanked the jacket over his shoulders, and propelled him forcefully back towards the kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson – "

"_No_, Sherlock! You're not going anywhere, you're going to _clean this up_!"

She couldn't remember the last time she had truly yelled at him, but she was certain she had never felt such a need.

"You and your – your bloody – _experiments_ have already put everyone in this building in enough danger as it is, and I will _not _have you adding bombs to your repertoire!"

"Please, do you really think I'd be so short on tact as to build a bomb in my kitchen?"

"What do you call this, then?" she demanded, pointing at the row of watch glasses with their gelatinous contents.

"Fireworks," he replied waspishly. "I'm experimenting with the use of explosive gelatin instead of black powder, and I need to know how waterproof the reactants are, so – "

"_Fireworks_?" She didn't care that her voice came out an octave higher than normal, she cared about _this_. "You've been setting off _fireworks _in _my_ flat? Do you have _any_idea – "

"I've been working with explosives for years – "

"That doesn't make it _safe _– "

" – I'm fairly certain I know how to take the proper precautions – "

"But you never _do _– "

"I fireproofed the ceiling almost immediately I moved in – "

"You _what_?"

"The ceiling. I fireproofed the kitchen ceiling not days after I moved in." He stated this as though it was painfully obvious – as if (the very idea) he had told her about this.

She sputtered for a moment, trying to find the words to convey _exactly _what she thought about him right now, but hadn't a prayer of coming close. "With what?" she finally got out.

"Gypsum plaster." Sherlock tilted his head back to survey the surface in question. "I did do rather a nice job, didn't I?" he mused.

"No you bloody well didn't! Now I want all of this cleaned up, right now, and I want to you stop being so bloody – so bloody – _impossible_!" Drawing in deep breaths to compose herself once, more, she firmly turned her back on him. Walking primly back to the door, she ignored the lack of sounds that would indicate his obedience. She doubted he would heed her, but he could expect a nice heavy addition to his rent this month.

However, as she descended the stairs, she couldn't help but think that this wouldn't have happened if John were still around.

Over the next few days, Mrs. Hudson saw little of Sherlock. He had no cases that she knew of, and spent most of his time in his rooms. His experiments remained as odious as ever, but were no longer downright lethal. She supposed she should be glad of this, but all the same wished that he could be pulled out of his mood.

As hard as it would be, Mrs. Hudson resolved that if this had not eased up within a couple of weeks, she would suggest he start looking for a new flatmate.


	6. Chapter 6

She was surprised when Sherlock announced that Inspector Lestrade would be moving in, but not disappointed. She knew the Inspector a little, of course, and he seemed like just the man to keep Sherlock under a modicum of control.

He had sought her out for the first time since the incident with the fireworks, and had honestly seemed excited at the prospect of having a flatmate again.

When she teasingly called him on this, he responded airily that it was simply hateful to have to get up and make tea when he was trying to think. She took this to mean he was lonely, but decided to keep that nugget to herself. No need to antagonize the poor boy – he'd had a rough couple of weeks, even if he had been the cause of some of the discord – and was truly looking forward to some actual peace for a change.

She wasn't getting peace now, though, what with the noise and confusion of moving in. A floor up, she could hear her new tenant – Greg, he had said to call him – shouting at Sherlock about something or other, and Sherlock calling a reply from the floor above that. There was the usual crash and rattle of large boxes being dropped and moved, the inescapable confusion of where everything was to go, but rising above it all was Sherlock, being his usual good-natured, irritating self. As long as no one (or thing) came to harm, she was quite content with life this way.

Remembering what had happened the last time she'd thought that, she hurriedly turned her attentions back to the welcome meal she was preparing for this evening. It wouldn't do to give the impression that she made all of their meals – not their housekeeper – but it was only decent to get the Inspector off to a good start.

Speaking of the Inspector, here he was now, looking frightfully out of sorts as he pushed open the door and stepped out.

She made sure to keep an ear on Sherlock - it wouldn't do to have him destroying his new flatmate's belongings, after all – and her new tenant returned shortly, carrying a small Tesco bag.

"Shopping already, dear?" she called out to him.

"Jam," he replied, cracking a smile and holding up the bag. "I guess it's a sort of… peace offering, you could say."

"I understand, dear. It doesn't sound like he's blown anything up while you were out, so it's probably safe to go up.

"Much obliged," he joked, half-serious, before trotting back up the stairs.

Yes, she had a very good feeling about this, indeed.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson was sat in her sitting room with her feet up, watching the telly when she was startled by the door to 221B slamming open, giving way to the vehement argument of her two tenants.<p>

"I don't see why you have to use yours!"

"Because it's better!"

"It is not!"

"That is a matter of perspective, Lestrade, something you are quite notorious for lacking."

"Yeah, okay, fine, but you could've just remembered it!"

"Don't change the subject."

Their voices faded as they hurried up the stairs, although she was sure they were still going at it.

Sure enough, the volume increased again as the two of them came hurdling back towards the door a minute later, Sherlock tucking something into his pocket.

" – if we just went the other way, on the A40 – "

"I am _not _taking the A40 this time of day, we're late enough as it is!"

"Why don't you ever _listen_– "

The door swung to again, effectively cutting her off from the rest of their conversation. She smiled softly to herself.

Her boys. Whoever they were at any given time, they were always a pair to be reckoned with.

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Hudson," called a petulant voice from her doorway.<p>

"Yes, love?" she called back, not wanting to leave her book.

"May I come in?"

"Yes, love."

Sherlock wandered into her sitting room, and threw himself down into one of the chairs across from her.

He let out a long breath as he stared wearily at the ceiling. Getting no reaction, he heaved another long-suffering sigh.

Mrs. Hudson turned a page in her book.

Still gazing at the ceiling, Sherlock decided to elaborate.

"He made me do the shopping, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good for him."

Sherlock sat up and looked at his landlady askance. "What?"

"I said 'good for him,'" she replied, not looking up. "It's about time you learned, you know. You can't always rely on everyone else."

Sherlock snorted. "I see no reason why not."

"You know you do, Sherlock. You just don't want to admit it."

A disdainful sniff this time. She refused to look at him.

"What led you to presume that?"

Sighing herself, she closed the book over a finger, marking the page, and finally looked at him, albeit over her spectacles.

"You've experienced it, dear. People don't always remain exactly the same, in exactly the same place. You need to learn to not lean so heavily on people."

"Please, I don't 'lean so heavily on people.'"

"You certainly relied on John."

"That's one person, not 'people.'"

Realizing what he had just admitted, Sherlock looked pulled his knees to his chest and looked away.

"But now you have that nice Detective Inspector, don't you?"

Sherlock fidgeted in the chair for a moment before replying, although he still wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Yes, well, I suppose so. It certainly is more convenient this way, having greater access to case files and such."

Brief silence, in which Mrs. Hudson turned back to her book, before Sherlock stood in his typical abrupt leave-taking.

"Tea?" she asked, just before he got to the door.

He gave a brief smile. "No, thank you. There's some upstairs."

And with that he was gone, back up to his flat, leaving Mrs. Hudson smiling in his wake.

If Sherlock chose the DI's tea over hers, it must be very good tea indeed.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Hudson hated the rain. It aggravated her hip, and it made everyone snappish. She knew that she couldn't escape the weather when it acted up like this, but she thought it reasonable that she prefer to pass these days in more congenial company.<p>

She often visited her younger sister on days like these, and whiled away the time playing Scrabble or some such trivial thing, rather than worrying about the antics of her stir-crazy tenant.

No such luck this time. It wasn't often that she worried about driving in the rain, but these past few days had been a rare exception. So it was that this particular afternoon found her dozing on her sofa, trying with limited success to ignore the sounds of a bored Sherlock above.

He had some sort of case on, she knew, although she wasn't sure as to the details. The ceiling let out a low moan as the corresponding bit of floor creaked, and she bit back a moan of her own. Sometimes, the rain just made him lethargic, and he would be downright polite, and calm, and human, but if he had a case -

Of course he had a case. Of course he was cooped up indoors. Of course it would be a close thing whether it was the floor or everyone's nerves that were worn through first.

A tooth-grinding shriek from the ceiling. That _had_ to have been deliberate_. _So it was to be the nerves, then.

A sudden clap of thunder nearly jolted her out of her chair, and certainly jolted her out of her thoughts. How was she supposed to get any kind of rest with both Sherlock and the weather acting up?

She decided a nice cup of tea was in order.

Just as she was getting up to make it though, there was the sound of someone tearing down the stairs. That would be Sherlock. The sight of Lestrade hurrying down the steps after him confirmed this. She sighed at the pair of them. Always dashing about, Sherlock dragging Lestrade behind, no regard for the time, weather, convenience, or anything really. At least _he _had his coat.

It was fortunate that Mrs. Hudson only awoke after their return a couple of hours later. Had she been there at the door to greet them, she would have been shocked by their state and horrified at the amount of water dripping off of Sherlock and onto the carpets. She would have fussed over the pair of them, sending Sherlock to take a hot bath and Lestrade to take a stiff drink. She would have brought up tea and biscuits, but then not allowed them to be consumed until the worst of the water was cleaned up.

As it was, she merely stirred slightly at the sound of the opening door, and let herself drift back off, trusting that Lestrade would be able to take care if everything.

* * *

><p>It shouldn't have come as a surprise that the Inspector had children, but it did. Once she had that part, though, the rest was fairly simple. Of course they would be lovely, intelligent, and strong-willed. Of course they would be thrilled to see their father, and of course their visit would have put Sherlock off.<p>

Well, the _idea _of the visit. Now that they had gone, there was surprisingly little damage control to be done.

Both Sherlock and Lestrade – she never did quite get the hang of "Greg" – seemed relaxed and good-natured, and if Sherlock set up his experiments again immediately they had gone, at least he had allowed them to be put away at all.

It was also a heavenly surprise to hear Sherlock actually _play _his violin rather than torture it. She had always loved Vivaldi, and he was really quite good when he bothered.

As for Lestrade, the visit of his two daughters had seemed to be what really settled him in. The hardest part of having a flat-share with Sherlock Holmes, she had decided, was that it was so difficult to have an equal standing. The detective was always perfectly willing to simply run roughshod over people's lives, and it took quite a bit of effort to keep that from happening.

Now, however, Lestrade really _lived _there. 221B Baker Street wasn't simply his mailing address any more - it was so much more. It was a place where his children would be welcomed, a place where maybe they could learn to follow in his footsteps. It was a place where he could work, but also a place where he could choose not to work. It was a place where he could make tea to please the great Sherlock Holmes, but where his landlady could bring them up a meal if he asked nicely enough. It was a place to get away from the world while trying to figure out how to fix it.

It was both his fortress and his refuge, and he was proud to call it home.


End file.
